"Чарльз Буковски. Дневник последних лет жизни (engl)" - читать интересную книгу автора

recognition, Jack who never has a job, Jack who totally overrates his
potential, Jack who keeps screaming about his unrecognized talent, Jack who
blames everbody else.

You know who Jack is, you saw him yesterday, you'll see him tomorrow,
you'll see him next week.

Wanting it without doing it, wanting it free.
Wanting fame, wanting women, wanting everything.
A world full of Jacks sliding down the beanstalk.
Now I'm tired of writing about poets. But I will add that they are
hurting themselves by living as poets instead of as something else. I worked
as a common laborer until I was 50. I was jammed in with the people. I never
claimed to be a poet. Now I am not saying that working for a living is a
grand thing. In most cases it is a horrible thing. And often you must fight
to keep a horrible job because there are 25 guys standing behind you ready
to take the same job. Of course, it's senseless, of course it flattens you
out. But being in that mess, I think, taught me to lay off the bullshit when
I did write. I think you have get your face in the mud now and then, I think
you have to know what a jail is, a hospital is. I think you have to know
what it feels like to go without food for 4 or 5 days. I think that living
with insane women is good for the backbone. I think you can write with joy
and release after you've been in he vise. I only say this because all the
poets I have met have been soft jellyfish, sycophants. They have nothing to
write about except their selfigh nonendurance.
Yes, I stay away from the POETS. Do you blame me?

3/16/92 12:53 AM
I have no idea what causes it. It's just there: a certain feeling for
writers of the past. And my feelings aren't even accurate, they are just
mine, almost entirely invented. I think of Sherwood Anderson, for instance,
as a little fellow, slightly slump-shouldered. he was probably straight and
tall. No matter. I see him my way. (I've never seen a photo of him.)
Dostoevsky I see as a bearded fellow on the heavy side with dark green
smoldering eyes. First he was too heavy, then too thin, the too heavy.
Nonsense, surely, but I like my nonsense. I even see Dostoevsky as a fellow
who lusted for little girls. Faulkner, I see in a rather dim light as a
crank and fellow with bad breath. Gorky, I see as a sneak drunk. Tolstoy as
a man who went into rages over nothing at all. I see Hemingway as a fellow
who practiced ballet behind closed doors. I see Celine as a fellow who had
problems sleeping. I see e.e. cumming as a great pool player. I couldn't go
on and on.
Mainly I had these visions when I was a starving writer, half-mad, and
unable to fit into society. I had very little food but had much time.
Whoever the writers were, they were magic to me. They opened door
differently. They needed a stiff drink upon awakening. Life was too god-
damned much for them. Each day was like walking in wet concrete. I made them
my heroes. I fed upon them. My ideas of them supported me in my nowhere.
Thinking about them was much better than reading them. Like D. H. Lawrence.
What a wicked little guy. He knew so much that it just kept him pissed-off